The Clint Barton 'Phil'-harmonic
by AkitaFallow
Summary: When Clive Benson starts playing in Tim's orchestra, he doesn't think anything of it. Then he starts noticing things. Like the injuries, and the missed rehearsals, and the lack of the ability to respond to emails. It's too bad Tim never thinks of "superspy with a pseudonym" as an explanation until a little too late. (Or: the Clint-is-Phil's-cellist fic that no one asked for.)


**A/N: Yes the title is dumb but shhhh I like puns.**

 **Anyway here's some outsider POV Clint with a dash of feels and a little fluff and also a cameo by the Avengers at the end because reasons.**

 **(Also this was an excuse to write some musician stuff because I never get to do that and it's fun.)**

* * *

Tim loves his orchestra. He really does. There are some days when score study makes him want to bash his head into a wall (because condensed scores are honestly Satan's gift to the world and why would anyone ever decide to do something like that when it takes almost as much paper to just _show_ him which instruments are playing a part) and some rehearsals where he actually wishes he was at home drinking instead of trying to berate his violins into actually practising, but most days... most days he loves it.

The people who are part of it are probably the main reason he loves it so much.

There's something to be said about the kind of people who flock to a semi-professional community orchestra, especially in a city like New York. They're there to have fun, to make beautiful music together, and there's very little that can take that enjoyment away. (Him berating them for not practising sometimes does it, but they always come back having actually done some work and in the end the music sounds better for it. Tim taught high school for fifteen years; he knows how to motivate people.)

There are some people who hold a special place in his heart, though. His concertmaster, Josh, is of course the first, because they've been together in this group since its inception. (Tim had played French horn before graduating to conductor. He felt it was a better fit in the end.) They have an understanding, especially in their after-rehearsal coffee meets every second week.

There's Beth in the clarinet section, who is his wife's best friend and always comes over for dinner on Sunday evenings.

There's Kaitlyn in the trumpets, whose mother had been a good friend of them all and whose birth several group members had actually been present for.

Tim knows a lot about all of his musicians. He knows most of their likes and dislikes, their habits, their personal lives. That's what makes Clive Benson a particularly odd character, all things told.

Clive starts with the group one quiet September, sitting in the third cello chair and generally being a cheerful, unassuming addition to the orchestra. It's in the third rehearsal after the Christmas concert in his first year that things start getting a little bit odd.

There's a stir in the cellos during a quiet moment in the Dvořák symphony they're playing, and Clive whispering "sorry, sorry," as he emerges from the orchestra, his cello trailing behind him and inciting a few mutterings from his section mates. His cell phone is in his hand.

"Sorry, I gotta go," Clive says with a truly apologetic look on his face.

Tim's already cut off the group and gives Clive a look. "Is there a problem?"

Clive just shrugs as he puts his cello in its case and stores the bow. "I'm on call for work."

There are a few murmurs of acknowledgement through the orchestra; many people know how that goes. There are a few doctors in the group.

Tim waves him off. "Drive safe."

Something about that puts a strange look on Clive's face, but he just nods with a grin and leaves, his cello rolling cheerfully behind him.

He misses the next two rehearsals, and then comes back as if nothing's happened.

Tim quickly learns that, if he wants to keep this man in his orchestra (and he does; it's hard to find cellists who are good enough to pull off the sight reading that Clive does, but don't want to try and move up to a bigger group like the New York Philharmonic) then he's got to accept that whatever his job is, it's gonna take him away for weeks at a time, without warning, and no amount of concerned talks and emails is going to stop it.

(He knows it from the first time he emails Clive with a quick "Hey, was wondering if you're alright? Haven't seen you in awhile," and he gets back a succinct "Working. Should be back in a week. Don't let Chris kill Jocelyn for that passage at 253 in Sibelius.")

He tries to ignore the fact that there's definitely a betting pool going on in the woodwind section as to when he'll be there and when he won't.

Clive doesn't miss a single concert in the first three years, which is good enough for Tim. He clearly practises. He can be forgiven for his job.

* * *

It's just three weeks before the spring concert in Clive's fourth year with the group when a man meets them outside the rehearsal hall.

"Hey!" Clive says loudly, attracting a few eyes from around the group. "Didn't think you'd be off yet."

The man—whose face is so nondescript that Tim would have trouble describing him later—just smiles a little smile. "I thought I'd come see you."

Clive's face brightens. "Not that I'm complaining, but I didn't even know you knew I was in this group."

The man just raises an eyebrow. "I know a lot of things you don't know I know."

Clive punches him in the arm, and the conversation continues as they walk out the door, even if no one else can hear it.

There are murmurs among the band, and Chris shrugs as a question is thrown his way. They've never seen Clive spend any time with anyone outside the orchestra in the years they've known him, so it's a bit surprising to see.

Tim can already feel the headache coming on as the woodwind section whispers among themselves.

* * *

Every rehearsal thereafter, Clive gets a little smile on his face as he's leaving.

"Going to meet your man?" Betty, first violin fourth chair, asks as he leaves one day.

Clive just smiles.

The whispers get louder. The brass section is being infected by it. He swears a few trombones giggle.

Tim just sighs.

* * *

When the man shows up at the March concert, clearly enjoying the Mozart symphony that they played, Tim decides it's about time to introduce himself.

"Tim Carlton," he says as he holds out his hand.

"Phil," the man replies with his little smile and takes the hand. There's a weird feeling of power in the man's hand, like he could throw Tim over his shoulder and smile while doing it.

(Tim's not unfamiliar with this feeling. Everyone's seen Clive's biceps as he plays, because apparently long sleeves are for losers, and the first time the man shook his hand he was sure it was going to break. Whatever Clive does for work, it's clearly not bad for his physical wellbeing, and maybe Phil does the same.)

"How do you know Clive?" Tim asks, because he can't not. He can feel the eyes of the percussion section boring into his back as they pack up their equipment.

Phil gets a funny look on his face. "Clive?" he muses for a moment, and Tim's not quite sure what to make of that. "He's... Well, I suppose you could say we're together."

Tim smiles slightly. "Good on you. He's a good man."

Phil chuckles. "I know."

* * *

Clive starts practically running out of rehearsals, when he's there. The entire orchestra has mobbed Tim at some point about the two, and it's not really fun, so he finally just told the section leaders and had them tell everyone else.

(Clive had laughed his ass off when Tim asked for permission after the concert. "Dude, I didn't think it was a secret," he giggled. "God, weren't we fuckin' _obvious_?")

Phil doesn't miss a concert, either. He meets Clive at the end of every rehearsal with a car and a smile, and the entire orchestra is basically in a tizzy over how adorable the two of them are.

(Especially the day they walk out together and Kaitlyn squeals loudly about the matching rings she just spotted on their hands.)

Clearly, they're happy, and in the orchestra, that means everyone else is happy. That's what families are for.

* * *

And then, the first rehearsal back after the alien invasion, after the city has started to recover and everyone just wants to return to normal and they start up rehearsals again (three weeks after the fact, because every building in the city has to be checked for instability and cleared of debris), something's changed.

Clive arrives on time, which in and of itself is a bit unusual (as he's usually running in right at the top of the hour, with barely enough time to get his instrument out before the downbeat, let alone warm up in any useful way), but it's not that which seems off.

He's quiet.

Chris is the first to notice, and he gives Tim a significant look at the hour-mark break. Clive is sitting in his chair, flipping through his music and writing a few marks here and there with a concentration Tim has barely seen on his face when he's not actively playing.

"Clive?" Jocelyn asks, turning around in her chair. "Everything alright?"

He looks up for a moment, and something in his eyes is off. "Fine." Then he turns back to his music in a clear dismissal, and Tim isn't sure what to make of it.

They've all lost people in the invasion. There've been a few orchestra members who haven't shown up, and that's not unusual. (Tim knows that their horn section will always be down one now, and he feels the pull on his heart every time he thinks of it.) But most of those people have stayed home, are out of town mourning, or just don't have the energy to come back quite yet.

Clive seems almost like he _can't_ stay home.

Every rehearsal after that, they watch as he sits stiff-backed and tall in his chair, playing his instrument with rigid precision, and Tim can hear the musicality has been pulled out of his playing like it's been wiped clean off a whiteboard.

He's starting to suspect what happened, especially when after every rehearsal, no one meets him outside the building.

* * *

The day that the ring disappears from his finger, Tim knows for sure.

* * *

The next concert, there's a tribute to the victims of the Battle of New York. Tim wasn't sure he should do it, wasn't sure if he should really do anything like that at all with it being so far after the invasion and everyone else has already done their tributes, but there are enough people in the orchestra (everyone) affected that he just can't not. They play Nimrod from the Enigma Variations, and he sees more than enough tears as they go through.

Clive doesn't play.

After the concert, the entire orchestra gathers in the ready room and stands together in silence, their thoughts on the ones they've lost. Clive stands off to one side, a lost look in his eyes. Tim makes his way over, not sure of his welcome, but sure that something needs to be done.

He doesn't ask if he's alright. Nobody really is.

"Clive?"

The man doesn't respond for a minute, and when Tim touches his arm he startles, as though he didn't realize anyone was there. There's a slightly wild look in his eyes.

"Tim," he breathes after a moment, letting out a huge breath. "Sorry, man."

"Hard concert," Tim says after a moment.

Clive nods gravely, crossing his arms over his chest. Tim can see that they're shaking. "Yeah. It was."

Tim looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

Clive seems to realize what he's asking, but he just shakes his head. "Sorry. I can't... can't really talk about it right now."

Tim nods. "It's okay. But we're here, you know. This group's a family."

Clive gives him a lopsided smile that's got something not quite right in it. "Yeah, I know. I remember."

Tim pats him on the shoulder, and leaves him be.

* * *

The injuries weren't really something that he noticed before, but now that he's paying more attention he sees them more often—or maybe they're just _happening_ more often and he didn't notice before.

But when Clive comes in looking like he's been beaten within an inch of his life—his face black and blue, his leg wrapped tightly in a cast, and his hair in disarray—Tim can't _not_ see it.

"Jesus man, you okay?" says Chris, looking pale.

Clive waves a hand from the crutches tucked under his arms. "Peachy."

"What happened?" Jocelyn asks in horror.

Clive just shrugs. "Had a bit of an accident."

He doesn't answer any more questions. No one knows what to say, but they don't bring the subject up again.

* * *

Clive disappears for two months.

No one knows where he is. He doesn't answer any of the emails or messages that Tim leaves for him. A concert goes by one cello down.

No one knows what to do.

* * *

And then, as if nothing's happened, Clive shows up again, with the strangest look in his eyes and an arm in a cast.

"Where've you been?" Tim asks him lightly, treading carefully—Clive's been odd since the invasion, since Phil... disappeared, and he's not quite sure how to deal with him now that he's been gone for so long.

"Hmm?" Clive hums, looking up at him like he's never seen him before. "Oh. Away on work stuff."

"Is that what caused this?" Tim asks, and he's starting to get worried. This isn't the first injury, and he knows it won't be the last. Normal people, with normal jobs, don't just get hurt this often. He wonders what it really is that Clive does for a living, and he worries.

Clive looks down at his arm like he's never seen it before. "Um. Yeah, I guess."

Tim sighs, because he knows from experience he won't get anything more out of the man. "Hope you can still play."

Clive gives him a little smile, and wiggles the fingers that are sticking out of the cast. "These are all I need."

And when he starts playing, something's changed.

There's life in his music again.

* * *

They don't notice the ring back on his finger until three rehearsals later, and Jocelyn lets out a little shriek during break when she notices.

"Clive!" she says, clearly before she can stop herself. "You've got—what…?

Clive looks down at his finger, and something in his eyes softens just a little. "Yeah."

Chris has turned in his seat, and a few members of the trumpet section are leaning over their stands with intent looks on their faces. "Wha..." No one knows how to ask.

Clive finally takes pity on them. "It's Phil," he says quietly. "He's... he's okay."

A gasp ripples through the entire orchestra, like a sigh of release that everyone was holding their breaths for. No one manages to ask how, because you don't question gifts like that, and the light that's back in the man's eyes is more than enough for everyone.

* * *

Tim still takes time to question what exactly it is that Clive does for work, and he can't really ask Clive outright—so the next time he sees Phil, at one of their summer concerts in the park, he corners the man.

"Heard you were dead," Tim starts without preamble, because he cares about his orchestra musicians and he doesn't want to know how Phil let his husband think he was dead for almost a year.

Phil has that tiny smile on his face that's so bland you can't read anything from it. "Yeah. Thought I was too."

Tim gives him a hard look. "He didn't do well without you."

Phil gives him a blank stare. "I'm aware. You're not the first to tell me, or the last." He heaves a sigh. "Believe me, if I could have prevented it, I would have."

That seems to be the end of that. Phil might be hard to read, but there's very little he can't convey with a single look if he puts his mind to it. (He'd come to one of the orchestra barbeques two years ago and had a great time quelling any and every comment that anyone made about him that wasn't a hundred percent kind and wonderful. It was surprising, especially because most of the people had been drunk at the time.)

"So," Tim says finally, as they watch the musicians mingle. Clive waves from across the grass, where he's enjoying a drink with a few members of the viola section. "I see that Clive's got a pretty rough job."

Phil hums but doesn't say anything.

"Hard to believe he does something dangerous enough to get hurt that often," Tim wheedles.

Phil gives him a Look and a smile. "I'm sure he knows how to take care of himself."

Tim scowls. "I hope that it's nothing that's going to cause him trouble."

Phil laughs outright, and it's the first time he's heard that from the man. "Believe me, Mr. Carlton, he's doing nothing he's not used to."

Tim gives him the stink eye. "Sometimes what we're used to isn't what's good for us. I used to teach high school. I should know."

Phil snorts inelegantly. "High school is a little different than what Clive does."

There's that odd sort of emphasis on Clive's name. Tim still doesn't know what to make of it.

"I hope he knows what he's doing," Tim says finally, as Clive finishes whatever he's saying to the violists and starts making his way over. "Because I kind of need my third chair."

Phil smiles, one that reaches all the way up to his eyes this time. "I hope that we can keep him around for you," he says sincerely.

Tim hopes that's true.

Clive finally reaches them and immediately throws an arm around Phil's shoulders. "Gossiping about me?" he says brightly, a drink in his hand and a huge smile on his face.

Phil's face melts, and Tim thinks that yes, there's going to definitely be good things coming in this relationship. Phil will watch Clive's back, he's sure.

(As long as the bastard doesn't go and die again. That wasn't nice last time.)

* * *

Things settle out after that. Clive doesn't come with any fewer injuries, but he seems more cheerful about them on the whole. Phil picks him up regularly, and the orchestra starts to get to know his face as much as Clive's.

(One of them tries to convince the man to join. It's Clive who starts laughing first.

"You do _not_ want to hear this man play any sort of music, unless it's the radio," Clive chuckles as Phil just sort of pouts. "He's so tone-deaf, I despair of ever having him truly appreciate art."

This sets off an argument that lasts well through the intermission, and starts again when the concert ends. Tim's not sure who wins.)

* * *

One day, at the end of a concert that marks Tim's twelfth year as the director of the group (and Clive's sixth, because he keeps track of all his musicians but Clive seems to be the one most likely to duck out at some point), he's just finished helping stack the last of the chairs when he turns around and comes face to face with Tony Stark.

"Holy shit," he says, before he can think better of it.

"That's usually how people feel," Stark says with a grandiose hand gesture. "I prefer 'Holy _fucking_ shit' myself. Makes me feel more appreciated."

Tim doesn't know what to say. Tony Stark is at one of his concerts.

It takes a moment for the thought to sink in, and then he takes a deep breath. (He taught high school. He can deal with one billionaire, right?)

"Did you enjoy the show, Mr. Stark?"

Stark's eyebrow ticks up under the sunglasses he's wearing (and who wears sunglasses indoors? Honestly!) "Yeah. The music and stuff. Was great."

Tim raises his own eyebrow. "I'm surprised you enjoy this kind of thing."

Stark just waves a hand in the air dismissively. "I don't. Well, kind of, I mean I had to listen to so much of it as a kid you have no _idea_ , but it's not really my thing. I came for a friend."

Tim's too busy trying to think of who in his orchestra could possibly be friends with Tony fucking Stark to notice when another person comes up behind the man.

"Hey, Tony, he's in the ready room," the big blond says, and holy shit that's Captain America.

Tim feels a little faint.

"Steve Rogers," the man introduces himself unnecessarily, and Tim just nods stupidly and takes the offered hand. Stark snorts.

"I think we broke him."

"Not unusual," a woman says as she comes up the steps to the stage. "The two of you combined tend to do that."

Captain America looks sheepish. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. We're just here to see Clint."

Tim blinks. "Who?"

They all give him a curious look, but are prevented from answering when Clive and Phil come through the door at the back of the stage, another man at their side.

"Liked it?" Clive is asking the bespectacled man as they approach.

"I always like Paganini," the man says with a little smile as he adjusts his glasses, like a nervous tick.

"Clint!" Stark says with frankly a bit too much grandeur. "You were beautiful! A true specimen of cello-ism, I have to say."

"Tony," Rogers says with a long-suffering smile. "Let the man be."

"I was just expressing my ever so loving enjoyment of his playing, Cap. Don't need to get your All-American tighty-whities in a twist."

The woman snorts.

Tim just stares.

"Clint?" he finally says weakly, as he stares around at the group and...

Holy shit.

They're the Avengers.

Clive—Clint?—looks sheepish and rubs the back of his head. "Uh... Yeah. Hi. I'm Clint Barton."

Tim opens his mouth a few times, but no words come out.

" _You_ broke him this time," Stark says with an accusing finger. "I had nothing to do with it."

Clint just sighs and puts a hand on Tim's arm, leading him over to the side where the stage hand's chair sits just behind the curtain. "Give us a sec, guys." When he's seated, Clint gives him a little smile. "Sorry, didn't mean to spring that on you. I guess they just kinda showed up. I think Phil told them."

Tim still can't quite think of a good response, so eventually he just says, "Avengers?"

Clint gives a little smile. "Yeah. Can't really go around with my real name on concert programs and shit, right? I'm supposed to be a _spy_ or something."

Tim nods stupidly. He's never felt quite this slow before.

"Sooooo..." Clint drags the word out, twirling a finger in the air. "Are you okay?"

Tim sucks in a deep breath. "Yeah, just trying to process that I've had one of the Avengers playing third chair cello in my orchestra for six years and I didn't know."

Clint smirks. "Don't worry, I'm happy where I am. Don't have to change anything just 'cause you find out I'm famous."

Tim gives him a dirty look.

"Oooor not. And, like, don't expect any of them to join now that you know. Because Phil might be tone-deaf, but I think that Tony might be ACTUALLY deaf because of how loud he listens to his music. And Tasha likes dancing more. You don't want Bruce, having him around really expensive and delicate things tends to be a bad combination." Tim faintly pictures the Hulk smashing through the violin section and wants to cry. "Thor's the same; he couldn't make it today, you'll have to meet him sometime else, because I think you'll get along. Just don't let him near the percussion instruments. And Steve... well, maybe Steve. I dunno what he'd play though."

"I think one Avenger is more than enough," Time finally manages to choke out. Clint's answering smile is blinding.

"Good we had this talk," he says, before turning on his heel and returning to the ragtag group of what are apparently the fucking Avengers on the stage.

Tim doesn't really get his feet under him until after they leave.

* * *

After that, it sort of makes sense when Clive—Clint, damnit—misses rehearsals. It usually coincides with some kind of international disaster that has to do with aliens or strange supervillains that pop out of the woodwork.

The Avengers start showing up to orchestra barbeques. Tim has no idea how it stays out of the news, and mostly just thanks the loyal and rather insular musician community for it.

The post-concert get-togethers are never the same again.

(At one point Captain America—"Call me Steve, I'm not in uniform"—asks if he can sit in on a rehearsal, because he'd tried trumpet sometime in his youth and wanted to try again. Tim doesn't have the heart afterwards to tell him that Taps isn't actually supposed to sound like a dying elephant.

Mr. Stark has no such compunctions.)

It's chaos, but the kind of chaos he can deal with. A group of superheroes invading his orchestra isn't the worst that can happen.

He taught high school, after all.

 _FIN._


End file.
